


Thinking of Something Forgotten.

by CescaLR



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (but that's par for the course as far as teen wolf is concerned), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banshee Powers, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Forgotten Peter Hale, Forgotten Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 05 AU, Season/Series 06 AU, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, Tags Contain Spoilers, Wild Hunt (Teen Wolf), butchering of mythology (I'm so sorry)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 17:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: The day started like any other. As it always did, does, and will do.Forever.(Except. Something's /wrong/.)





	Thinking of Something Forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> I've made it very clear I don't like season six... so I'm trying this again. But better, this time. You can still read my previous attempt... I might continue that train of thought at some point. But I like this one more.

Scott woke up on a day like any other.

He got out of bed, went into his on-suite, brushed his teeth, washed, went back into his room, got ready – cocked his head to the side and paused.

Something – but no. Everything was normal.

He grabbed his bag, then hesitated, and checked it over.

… Okay. No inhaler. Odd.

Scott searched his room for it, and – oh, there, okay. Must have needed it yesterday and forgot to put it back.

Scott nodded to himself and then left his bedroom.

“Mom?” He called out, checking.

“She’s at work, Scott,” Dad said, leaning out of his bedroom.

“Okay,” Scott nodded, smiling slightly. “I thought you were at work?”

“Got back early,” He inclined his head, gesturing. “Your sister’s making breakfast, so I’d go down now if I were you.”

“Nice.” Scott grinned and followed instructions.

* * *

 

Lydia woke up on a day like any other.

But something was off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it – but.

Lydia’s a banshee. She knows this. _How_ she knows this is up for debate, and she thinks that’s off. Lydia has friends in Malia, Liam, kind of Hayden and Mason, and the McCalls.

Lydia paused. The _McCalls._ That feels off, too.

Lydia looked over at the picture on her bedside table – the one she knows Ally’s got on her’s. That – Lydia shook her head and rubbed her throat. No. Lydia might have screamed for her, but she’s _not dead._

Lydia shook her head again, as if to clear it, and stood up from her bed.

She’s got friends - even _m_ _ore_ than a friend, in Scott, but (wait - what?). Lydia’s got friends. Why – why did she feel like something was missing?

Lydia frowned as she got ready, frowned through cleaning her teeth, washing, dressing, applying makeup and perfume and styling her hair.

She could just _feel_ it.

Lydia glanced at one of her pictures – one of them on the bench at school, the one that was taken on yearbook picture day.

Malia, herself, Allison, Scott.

In it, Malia’s not quite smiling. In fact, it’s more of a grimace than anything else. As for the others - Allison is, properly, and Scott looks happy enough.

Lydia herself isn’t quite smiling, either – there’s a tightness around her eyes, and a slight furrow to her brow… like she knows something’s off, too. Even in picture form.

But that can’t be right. Lydia shook her head again, massaged her throat – there’s a feeling which worries her that she was feeling at that moment, and this was her habitual response to that – then grabbed her bag and went downstairs.

“Lydia?” Her mother asked, “Are you forgetting something?”

“Yes,” Lydia stated, easily but quick and – Lydia paused.

She’s _forgotten_ something. That’s what’s up. Lydia had forgotten something. Something big.

But she can’t tell _what._

She needed to figure this out. Out of everyone in the pack, she’s the one who does. The one who always does.

Lydia paused. There’s an echo there, deja-vu in those words. But – no. Wait.

That’s something wrong, too.

Lydia smiled at her mom, nervously, when the woman frowned slightly at her quick answer.

“Could you remind me about what I forgot?” Lydia asked.

“It’s your anniversary, Lydia,” Natalie looked amused. “Remember?”

Lydia paused. “My anniversary?” She asked.

“Mhmm,” Her mother hummed in confirmation. “Remember? Scott? Your boyfriend?”

Lydia blinked.

Okay. Huge alarm bells. Massive ones. Okay.

“Scott. My boyfriend.” Lydia said, and it sounded right – but. But.

Natalie’s slightly amused expression falters with concern. “Are you feeling okay, Lydia?” She asked.

“I’m fine,” Lydia said, automatic.

“Are you sure?” Natalie persisted, concern growing. “Are the after-effects from that awful place dying down?”

“You mean –” Lydia started.

“Yes, I mean Eichen House.” Natalie looked regretful, and like she’d love to ream her past self out for even just the passing thought of sending her daughter there.

“I know what that place did to your grandmother, to Claudia, to the people it takes in,” Natalie closed her eyes, and if Lydia was a werewolf she could probably smell the self-hatred. “I should never have sent you there.”

“You were desperate,” Lydia said. “You didn’t know what happened. You didn’t know what else to do.”

“Anything else would have been better,” Natalie said. “You were just…”

“Vegetative?” Lydia offered. “In a coma but not? Extended immobile fugue state?”

“Awake but not there,” Her mother said, quietly. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to just… watch.”

“You could have let my friends visit.” Lydia snapped.

“At the time, I was in denial,” Natalie agreed. “Allison came by… but…” The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry,” Natalie said; a repeated phrase. Genuine each time, but… something that sounded less sincere the more she said it.

“Just do better,” Lydia said. “You were great after I was attacked at the school in Junior year. You were great after my fugue states. You _can_ do better – you _have done_ better… so, just – do that. Be better, again.”

Natalie nodded, slowly. “Well,” She said, “The first way to start doing that is by making sure you don’t forget the important things,” Natalie said. “So; your anniversary gift? We got it yesterday.”

“Right,” Lydia allowed. She’d go along with it.

It’s _true,_ though. That’s the thing. She’s with Scott McCall… romantically. That’s a true statement. But – _what the fuck._

There was a time when she might have considered it, over a year ago, back when his werewolf status started showing itself. But.

That was over a year ago, right?

“You started dating about half a year ago?” Natalie reminded her, the concerned frown making a return.

“Right,” Lydia agreed, offered a smile – but it was strained, distant, hesitant around the edges.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Her mother repeated her earlier question.

“I feel fine,” Lydia said, which was true. “I just… forgot.” Which was true, and also not.

She _forgot._ But she _hadn’t known._

How can it be true that she forgot something she hadn’t known? How hadn’t she known in the first place?

What the fuck?

Lydia shook her head and straightened her posture. “It’s my anniversary,” She said, “And I need to go grab that present, then I’ll be down for breakfast, and then I need to go off and celebrate it with my boyfriend.” She smiled charmingly at her mother, which seemed to work to convince her. The concerned frown smoothed over, and she placed a hand on Lydia’s arm and squeezed lightly. “That’s my girl,” She said, nodding. “You enjoy yourself today, you hear? Six months…” Natalie shook her head, smiling genuinely. “After Aiden…” Her smile dimmed.

“I know, mom,” Lydia said quietly.

“Well,” Natalie coughed, lightly. “You best get going – don’t want to be late!”

“And you’ve got work to get to,” Lydia reminded her mother, smiling. “So… we should probably get to our respective obligations.”

Natalie nodded, removed her hand from Lydia’s arm, and disappeared into her bedroom. Lydia shook her head slightly, but she was smiling now, if just a little, and she went back into her own room.

The present was there, all wrapped up nicely on the vanity – Lydia didn’t know how she’d missed it. Lydia packed it away into her bag, checked she had everything she’d need, left the room, went down the stairs, made herself breakfast and ate it and then went out the front door. She got in the car and drove to school.

A day like any other. But, as Lydia drove, she frowned, lightly.

A day like any other. _But not quite._

* * *

 

Isaac looked around the apartment. It was nice of Chris to help him out in finding it and finding a job and helping with the rent, especially considering Isaac is a werewolf dating his daughter, but.

It’s – kind of empty. Devoid of feeling and personality and charm and life. Isaac isn’t a permanent resident here… just as nobody else is. It’s an apartment. The owner doesn’t live here, and the people that do don’t stay. Eventually, they move on, to bigger and brighter and homier places.

But it’s a nice place, don’t get him wrong. He likes it. It’s nice to have his own place. Not too small, no little box rooms – thank god. Open spaces and large windows and it’s…

Airy. Light. Nice.

But it’s empty. Isaac just moved in; maybe once he gets some personal possessions strewn about the place, it’ll feel more like someone’s home than just a house.

The thing is.

Isaac and Chris were both surprised to find a stupid amount of guns here. Like – really stupid. Far too many, unless your excuse was that you work as an arms dealer for the government or something along those lines.

Like Chris does.

But – it doesn’t matter. Chris got it all cleared up with the landlord and took the lot – except Isaac, while they (the three of them; Chris, Allison, and Isaac) were in France, Chris got him a Hunter’s speciality.

Open-carry permits in the places that have them and simple permits in the ones that don’t, and special licences you show to Hunters the Argents have strategically placed in ‘the force’ so you don’t get arrested for having a gun in a place where that’s illegal.

So. Isaac was taught how to use a gun. After all...  _when in Rome_. And Isaac, though not in Rome, was in the homeland of the _Argents._ There were a lot more hunters in France, so knowing how to use a gun…

If he acted like a hunter, they didn’t ask too many questions. If he’d acted like a _werewolf,_ he’d probably be dead.

(Too many people still loyal to Gerard and Kate, even now. Though they probably don’t know the bitch is a were-jaguar. That would quickly change their opinion of her… but they’d still follow the geriatric bastard.)

(So the point is moot, is what he’s saying.)

Anyway – the point is…

Isaac is back in Beacon Hills. Somewhere he’d thought he’d never return, after what happened. He knew, definitely, that the McCalls would return home after they dealt with what they’d needed to deal with (what had they needed to deal with, again?) but… Isaac had kind of figured he’d stay away.

But. Chris had frowned and dragged him along, so. Here Isaac is.

The place where he grew up.

Isaac looked around the apartment again. It was nice enough, he liked it a lot.

But it was still in Beacon Hills. And anyone can tell you – anyone at all – this place is a death trap. And Isaac thought he’d gotten out of that.

No such luck, he supposed, and went into the living room to watch some TV. Nothing else to do, really. He’s gotten his G.E.D and he’s finishing his education off online. So.

He should probably get on that. But… not at this moment in time. In the afternoon, maybe. After he visits Allison during the school’s lunch break.

Yeah. That works. 

* * *

 

Malia started off her day like any other. She determinedly made her way through getting ready, forcefully made her way through breakfast which she took upstairs last night and stored in her cooler, skipped talking to her dad by escaping out the window, and then ran all the way to school.

Or – Malia figured that’s how all her days start off. After all, this is how it’s been for a while, now.

After…

Well. She didn’t need to think about _that_ betrayal. Just one more person in a long list of people she’s lost. But.

Well. You could say this was her fault.

Malia shook her head as if to chase away those thoughts, and barrelled on. She made it to school at the usual time, and hurried on inside, over to homeroom, and dropped into her seat just before the bell rang.

She used to have a ride – but. It doesn’t matter.

It’ll never matter again. Because –

“Hey,” She said to Lydia, quietly. “Got your gift for Scott?”

“Yeah,” Lydia said in response, distantly.

Malia frowned. “Are you having a banshee moment?” She asked, bluntly.

“No,” Lydia said, absently, then turned her head to look at Malia in her peripheral vision.

“… Do you feel like something’s missing?” She asked. “Like you’ve forgotten something big, but there’s… there are holes covered in a tarp that you can’t see? Memories hiding the missing pieces?” The genius extrapolated, in case Malia missed the metaphor.

She _didn’t_ , but _whatever._ Over-explanation is better than under-explanation, anyway.

Malia gave the question some genuine thought. Did she?

“I…” She hesitated. “I don’t _think_ so?”

Lydia nodded, slowly. “Okay,” She said. “I’ll ask Scott.”

“Maybe Allison,” Malia offered, “She might be better at recognising… after what happened.”

“Right,” Lydia pursed her lips. “Remind me about what happened?”

Malia frowned at Lydia. “Are you okay?” She asked. “Because I – showed up a bit late to the game, but…”

Lydia winced. Oh, right.

“Sorry,” Malia said. “Not a game. Right.”

Lydia frowned. “Just… humour me.”

Malia shrugged. “Okay…” She said, drawing out the word a little. “So,” She started, “Remember, Allison got infected by one of those void flies and did a lot of… awful things?”

“Right,” Lydia frowned. “And… the owner of the void fly?”

Malia grimaced, closed her eyes slightly.

“Theo,” She said, then opened her eyes and shrugged, attempted to give off an air of indifference.

“You know,” She said, casually, “My evil ex-boyfriend?”

* * *

 

 _No,_ she did _not know_ that _Theo_ was _Malia’s_ evil _ex-boyfriend._

But Malia _had_ had a boyfriend for a lot of the time Lydia has known her. _But it was not Theo._ No way.

“Oh,” Lydia let out, lightly, hoping to disguise her disbelief. Her suspicions were mounting about this whole situation, but this was more than just alarm bells at her own relationships – this was…

 _No._ Her brain refused to cooperate and take in the information. No _, no, **no.** _

Her throat itched, and she massaged it. Malia’s eyes tracked her hand, concerned.

“Are you sure this isn’t a banshee moment?” Malia asked. Her eyes flashed blue, for a second, and then it was gone.

“You smell weird,” Malia said. “Weirder than you usually do during one of these,” She gestured vaguely, “Banshee moments.”

“Thanks,” Lydia said, dryly. Malia just shrugged.

“So is it or not?” Malia asked. “Because if it _is,_ I’m going to have to go to Math with you.” She grimaced.

“Math isn’t that bad,” Lydia tried.

“Nah,” Malia said, “I hate it. So, if this _isn’t_ a banshee moment I can go like I normally do without feeling bad about it.”

“Go where?” Lydia asked.

“Go running?” Malia offered, “Go hang out elsewhere? Hide in the art department? I don’t _know,_ I’ll just _go.”_

“Okay,” Lydia said, frowning off into the distance. She could have sworn Malia had never done that – or, that she’d tried once but someone had stopped her. She _distinctly_ remembered that day, actually – Malia’s claws had shown themselves during class when she was called up to the board and didn’t know how to get the correct answer.

_Who was she with?_

According to the girl seated behind her right now, Malia was with Theo. But.. that doesn’t seem _right._ Not even remotely.

“I think it is a Banshee feeling,” Lydia admitted.

“Great,” Malia ground out. “Amazing.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow at the girl.

“Sorry,” The werecoyote said, genuinely. “I’m just not having a great day.”

Lydia nodded. “You and me both,” She agreed, commiserating.

* * *

 

Chris’ days had never started the same as any other – there was always a difference in how he did them. It was in case of things like possession, so he would know if he was stuck in his own head. Or, alternatively, if anyone ever figured out time-travel and stuck him in a loop… he’d know.

So. His day started out as different from any other as it did every day, and in that, his day started out the same.

And it continued in this vein, all the way through Scott talking to him in the upstairs hall, all the way through finishing changing out of his work attire into something more comfortable, and all the way through going downstairs for what would be the others’ breakfast but for him, is dinner.

Both him and Melissa worked overnight, which at least would mean he’d get the rest of today off. Unfortunately, that would not necessarily be the case for his wife, but she’d hopefully at the very least get enough time to have a few hours of sleep.

“Who’s taking lunch to Melissa today?” He asked as he sat himself down on the table after getting a drink from the sink.

“Me,” Scott said, “Allison did it yesterday.”

Chris nodded. He smiled slightly at how the two interacted as breakfast continued being made, both of them kind of a hindrance to the other in the kitchen.

“If you don’t hurry up you’ll be late for school,” Chris reminded them. He’s glad they’ve adapted to being family so well – though, Chris supposes they’re just lucky the two were simply friends before Melissa and he started dating… if _they’d_ dated, it would be far more awkward to be siblings now, in the eyes of the law and their own parents.

Luckily, they hadn’t. Chris frowned lightly. The thought had crossed his mind once or twice, towards the beginning, of course, but not since then. It’s odd to be thinking it now, but –

“Breakfast is ready!” Allison announced, lightly shoving her brother out of the way as she set the table and Scott followed suit, slightly guiding her aside as he plated the food.

“Looks great,” Chris said dubiously and smiled slightly when Allison frowned playfully at him.

“I need to know how to cook,” She reminded him. “If me and Isaac are going to be going back to France after this whole thing with the Calaveras blows over and we need people who follow the new code in France.”

“Can’t Isaac cook?” He asked, exasperated.

“Yes,” She nodded, “But I’m going to _help_ him. Make it fun.”

Chris grimaced and nodded. Right, of course. How the boy had learned wasn’t… well. The man is lucky he’s already dead because Chris does _not_ tolerate abusers.

“Alright,” He said, “Let’s try this, then.”

Scott nodded, expression serious, as he started eating.

“It’s not bad,” He said, and Chris took that to mean _you can eat it._

Chris proceeded to take a bite – and indeed, you could eat it.

“Scott is right,” Chris said, “You can eat it.”

Allison playfully swatted his arm. “ _Dad,”_ She protested, “It’s not _that_ bad, right, Scott?”

“I like it,” Scott said.

“See?” She said, grinning. Chris was always happy to see her smile – but. Something was just…

“I like it too,” Allison said, after eating some of her serving. “I mean, it’s not _great,_ but I like it.”

“You can always improve,” Chris said, “It just takes practice. And this, for a third meal and the first you didn’t burn, is good.”

Allison’s grin turned softer, and something in the region of Chris’ heart _hurt._

* * *

 

“You need to stop doing this,” Melissa said, sighing at her old friend.

“I know,” Noah said, wincing.

“If he – or she – does this every time you visit-”

“Claudia’s not dangerous to me,” He said, seriously. “Neither is my father.”

“But –” Melissa tried –

“They’re not dangerous,” Noah repeated. “This wasn’t from that.”

“But you agree that they _do_ do this,” Melissa continued, ignoring his interruption. “… What was it from, then?” She added, after a moment’s pause.

Noah winced. “… I don’t remember,” He said. “I…”

“Was drunk?” Melissa said, disapproving.

“Got into a fight,” He agreed, quietly. “I think.”

“Right,” She said, a little sharper than she meant. Melissa finished putting on the bandage and sat back. “I’ll get something for those bruises,” She said, “Hold tight.”

“I’m an unemployed alcoholic,” Noah said, mirthlessly. Melissa stopped at the door. “I guess mom was right, huh? If I didn’t pay attention, one day I’d wake up like dad.”

“I think you paid too much attention to the wrong things,” Melissa said, honestly, turning her head to look at him. “And not enough to the things you should have. Because your mother didn’t give you good advice, Noah.”

“No, she never did.” He paused.

“Well,” Melissa paused too. “Out of the three people you’ve loved, your family and your wife, your mother never hit you.”

“That was blunt,” Noah said, “But true.”

“I’ll be right back,” Melissa promised. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Noah smiled wryly. “I’d have nowhere to go.”

Melissa sighed sadly, as she turned her head back towards the door, then left the room. The door clicked shut behind her, and then she closed her eyes and leaned against the wood, as people and other hospital staff walked the halls.

“Noah again?” Dr Fisher asked her, stopping next to Melissa and leaning against the wall beside her.

“It’s not –”

“The guy needs therapy he can’t afford,” The man said. “His situation’s sad, but it’s more common than you’d think.”

“I know just how common it is, David,” Melissa said, harshly. “ _Just_ how common.”

Fisher winced. “The Isaac kid?”

“And a few others, yes.” She narrowed her eyes at the slightly older man. “Now if there isn’t a patient waiting for me and you’re here to tell me about them, go do your job, David.”

Fisher nodded, grimacing, and walked off in the direction of the children’s ward.

Melissa sighed, stood up straight, and went to go find what Noah needed.

There was so much in Noah’s life that was missing, these days, that even if he’d had a son or a daughter or a dog or a best friend or another relative... if he forgot them, Noah rather thought he wouldn’t notice.

And that’s an issue he needs to deal with. Something he should have dealt with forever ago if he’s honest – but one thing led to another and now he’s looking after his father and his wife’s FTD surfaced again and he lost his job because of his alcoholism and –

There’s just a lot, all piling on top of everything that’s already there. Noah’s overwhelmed, to say the least.

And his wife seems to think he’s killing her, which is… wonderful, and the last time he visited Claudia –

Well. It’s been a few weeks. Maybe she’s calmed down.

But his father…

Verbal lashings are something Noah is rather used to from the man, but he’s gotten even less coherent and even harsher over the last few months.

And he keeps on bringing up Noah’s non-existent son. Which got Noah thinking.

If he had one – if he’d ever had one – Noah doesn’t think he’d remember, lately. So.

There’s a possibility. And – Noah may not be one any longer, but he was a Sheriff. He can make connections.

His wife’s jeep was stolen eighteen years ago – it was found three months ago in the school parking lot, and hadn’t been delivered to him until today. He saw it when he went into the house to call someone to take him to the hospital – he’s not stupid enough to drive drunk and injured.

But still. That’s odd, isn’t it?

And there’s a part of the wall in his house, now he thinks about it, which is blank. But if you go outside, there’s – well. The architecture shows that there should be a room there. It’s dark and empty and you can’t see inside from the outside, but there _is_ a room there. But once your inside – there isn’t.

Which is _definitely_ odd.

And then. There’s the supernatural. Which he knows about.

How did he find out? He used to, back when he was sheriff (not all that long ago, now he thinks about it – but long ago all the same) help the local supernatural teens and Melissa and Chris with everything that was going down.

Allison is a huntress. Lydia’s a Banshee. Malia’s a werecoyote. Kira’s a kitsune, and currently in the desert. Liam is a werewolf, natural-born… probably on his biological father’s side. Mason is human.

And so is Scott.

But – Noah frowned. No, that’s right. Hayden’s supernatural – who’s –

Alpha. Someone’s an Alpha. Not Derek, not -

Noah frowned harder at the wall. _Something_ –

“I’ve got it,” Melissa said, as she entered, breaking his focus. “So let’s apply this and then get you home, okay?”

Noah nodded, distracted from his train of thought.

“Okay,” Melissa repeated. “Let’s get you patched up, then.”

* * *

 

Stiles blinked, blinked, then thought, _what the fuck._

Where is he? He was just – in the jeep – and then –

Oh. Right.

… That was a dick move. He’s going to pay for that when he gets back. Fuck.

Stiles stood up, frowned around the room he was in. Not a room, exactly – a train station. Underground. With doors to side rooms dotted about the walls. Stiles walked around a little bit, glancing at the people seated down. He pocketed his keys once he noticed them still tightly grasped in his fist, and then he paused, took them out, and looked at them.

Bent. The keys were slightly bent, like they’d been taken and made useless and then someone had attempted to fix it, and they had, but they were permanently slightly bent at the base, so none of the keys looked straight if you held them at eye level.

… Okay. Who did that?

Stiles frowned, thinking. _Who the fuck bent my goddamn keys._

There was… a parking lot? The big one. With multiple levels. A parking _complex,_ really. Near the offices.

“What?” Stiles said to himself, quietly. It felt… quiet here. Even that near-silent, under-his-breath word sounded too loud.

“Okay,” He said, even quieter. “So… this is creepy.”

Stiles looked around, and then back to his keys. One of the reasons he had to use a screwdriver to start up his car was sometimes, these fuckers didn’t even work. And that was probably because they’d been bent, now that he thinks about it.

He’d known something was wrong. That something was going on, that something was missing.

All the broken windshields.

The kid, his family.

The wild hunt.

“Somebody was taken,” Stiles said, suddenly, out loud – too loud. He winced, glanced around.

Stiles carried on walking.

So. Someone was taken. But who?

Stiles frowned, tossed his keys up and caught them, then looked at them again, considering.

It had something to do with why these were bent – or, well, the person who was taken had something to do with why these were bent.

Oh, _fuck_ that guy.

Stiles frowned again.

_Missing._

_What’s missing?_

So. If someone’s missing, then the wild hunt replaced the memories. So Stiles just needs to – think. Go over his memories.

Stiles sat down, and frowned across the way, at the people on the benches on the other side, against the wall.

He looked over everyone, maybe thinking if he looked hard enough, he’d remember a face. Any face.

Any face at all.

His eyes caught on someone – a man. Middle-aged, probably, blue-eyed and wide-eyed like everyone else, staring at nothing.

He looked like Malia.

Malia was adopted, Stiles thought, distantly, as he frowned at the man. _That was something we tried to do. Find her parents._

_Her mother was the Desert Wolf – utter bitch._

_Her father was –_

_Her father was –_

_Her father –_

Stiles rubbed at his temples, wincing. Okay, headache. So he’s getting somewhere they don’t want him to go.

Okay.

_Her father was –_

_Her **father was –**_

**_Her father was –_ **

Hale. Her father was a hale.

 _Hale._ So. What Hales does Stiles know?

Eighteen years. So, all the hales alive eighteen years ago. Which is all the hales. Okay. But they _found_ her father, _alive,_ which means only the hales that survived the fire and Kate, years later. And are male adults, so Cora is obviously not an option.

So.

Derek Hale.

And…. Stiles frowned. And.

There’s another. Which is this guy? Possibly.

“Okay,” Stiles paused, then, quieter, “Think, Stiles. Think.”

 _You’re the only person here who knows anything about this, in terms of how it relates._ So think.

**_Figure it out._ **

“Okay,” Stiles repeated, “Information. I have it. I’m just missing the first name, okay, just a first name.”

So… list the names of the Hales. Easy.

Derek.

Cora.

Laura.

Talia.

Malia.

“What kind of name is Derek?” Stiles asked himself, “Come on, you’ve looked up names on Wikipedia before.”

Granted, polish, to see if he could say his own name with someone who could actually pronounce it telling him how to say it, but… he got distracted, and for that, thank fuck. Otherwise, this might have been a pointless exercise.

“Where’s google when you need it,” Stiles muttered to himself, sighing. “Okay. So. Derek.”

“Low German,” Stiles paused, “Yeah, okay, It’s – derived, Theodoric. So.”

Stiles ran his hand through his hair, agitated. “Names. Theodoric… - Theo. Theodore. Probably.”

Stiles grimaced. “Greek, okay, Theodore is Greek. God-gift. Thank Wikipedia, fuck.”

Stiles paused, then snorted. “Not that _Theo_ is in any way a gift from God.”

Stiles sighed, then shook his head. “Not important. So. Greek. Or biblical? Names derived from Greek, maybe, used in biblical, probably – uh. Adam… obvious, but –“ Stiles hesitated, “Doesn’t seem right, okay.”

Stiles thought for a fair amount of time on this, going through many names then – “Okay, let’s try… Mark?” (By this point, he’d given up on the Greek thing) “Matthew? Uh – Pet-”

Stiles _froze._

“Oh, fuck, it’s Peter, goddamn it.”

Stiles rubbed his forehead. “I forgot _Peter,_ and – why the fuck did… well, to be fair, I didn’t know it was _that jackass_ I forgot.” Stiles paused and considered. “And… the asshole did have a very large effect on the lives of those around me _and_ myself, as unfortunate as _that_ is, so I guess it makes sense to be confused if your memories around the last couple years of your life have been altered by the guy not existing anymore.”

Stiles paused. “And,” He added, “It did take me like three months to realise, so. Not that bad, honestly.”

Stiles nodded to himself, then grimaced.

“Though…” He sighed. “I really could have done without remembering even _more_ trauma.”

Stiles stood, pocketed his keys – no _thank you,_ that is _not_ happening again – and walked over to the bastard.

“Hey,” Stiles started, attempting to get the man’s attention. “Peter. Peter. _Peter.”_

Peter startled slightly, then looked at him.

“Oh.” He said. “Oh it just _had_ to be you, didn’t it?”

“I hate this as much as you do,” Stiles glared, “But if you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a lot of trouble right now, so if you could keep your backstabbing ways under wraps long enough for you to help me get out of here, which in turn gets you out of here too, that’d be great.”

Peter smirked at him. “It’s good to see you too, Stiles.”

Stiles glared harder. “Let’s get this over with,” He grumbled, then turned and started walking. He heard Peter stand and saw the evil creeper start walking beside him out of his peripheral vision.

“If I might ask,” Peter started, “But how long exactly have I been here?”

“Three months, I think,” Stiles said, “I don’t know, I literally just remembered your existence. It might take a while for the sheer extent of your shitty deeds to make itself known to me.”

“That should be entertaining,” Peter said, still smirking. Fucking hell, he trades one god-awful smirking asshat for another.

At least he got a short reprieve.

“What I remember so far,” Stiles started, as he looked around for a door to enter first, “Is you crushing my keys, which, fuck you, and you biting Scotty, which, fuck you, and you nearly killing Scott _twice,_ which, _screw you to hell,”_ Stiles stormed over to a door.

“And you’re Malia’s dad,” Stiles added, just as he went through the door. c

“Oh, are you kidding me?” Stiles said, glancing around – now on the other side of the platform. “It’s like freaking portal up in here, now?”

“Well, we are in a different dimension,” Peter said.

“… What?” Stiles stared.

“We’re in a different dimension,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “Use your _head,_ Stiles. There’s no train station in Beacon Hills, it got torn down years ago when that train line got made redundant, pretty much.”

“Oh.” Stiles said. “The tunnels are still there,” Peter continued, “Which is how my _wonderfully_ dramatic nephew found a train to live in, no matter how stupid that decision was, given the money he had at the time was enough to fund that car of his – but yes. There is no station there any more. Certainly not one with _that_ as it’s trains’ schedule.”

Stiles looked where Peter gestured, at the board which had the –

“Okay,” Stiles said, “Beacon Hills… Arriving.”

“Everywhere they’ve been, they took people,” Peter said, looking around at the seated masses.

“None of them do anything,” Stiles said, as he waved a hand in front of someone’s face.

“Well, no,” Peter said. “They’ve been here a while. Probably more brain dead then I was when in my coma.”

“But not quite as when you were _actually_ dead?” Stiles asked.

“No.” Peter looked at him flatly. “No, I think they’re worse off then even I was then.”

“Okay,” Stiles let out, “So we’ve got a bunch of practically dead people sitting around here, a bunch of doors that lead nowhere, and a train that hasn’t quite arrived yet. That’s a bit of a challenge.”

“A bit?” Peter repeated. “I thought Scott was the one with the unfailing optimism. You’re a realist, Stiles, you _know_ we’ve got no chance, here.”

“Excuse me,” Stiles said, “I’m actually kind of a pessimist, really, and for another, since Scott isn’t here, someone has to be optimistic about something and it sure as hell isn’t gonna be _you,_ so.” Stiles glared at him again. “I’m going to continue looking to see if these doors actually lead anywhere.”

And with that, Stiles walked off. Peter sighed, but he didn’t sit down – at least if he was entertaining himself by bothering the eighteen-year-old, he wouldn’t…

Be waiting for his train. Again.

Peter paused and concealed, expertly, a shudder, then followed after the young man.

* * *

 

“You feel like something’s missing?”

“I feel like a lot’s missing,” Lydia snapped at the druid. “And I know you like to be cryptic, but this is – it’s big. Whatever it is. Something’s –”

“Off?” Deaton asked. “My sister says the same; though she speaks regarding the balance of things.”

“And you?” Lydia persisted.

“There is something wrong.” He said. “At the same time as there being nothing amiss. The balance isn’t weighed either way – it’s… more perfect than it should be.”

“There is something here,” Deaton admitted, after a few moments where Lydia simply waited him out.

“The wild hunt,” Lydia said. There was a flash – _wind, horses, lightning –_ and Lydia sucked in a sharp breath, held her head and stumbled.

“Indeed,” Deaton said, eyeing her carefully. “Are you alright, Lydia?”

“No.” She said. “No, I’m not. Something’s missing.”

“Something?” Deaton asked. Leading.

Lydia felt a little faint, but – she closed her eyes, and an imprint from the bright light of the lamp above reminded her of –

_Lightning. Riders on a storm._

“It’s a song,” Lydia said, distantly. “He heard it in a song.”

“Who did, Lydia?” Deaton persisted.

“I forgot him,” Lydia said, strained. “He said I would and I said I wouldn’t and I _forgot him.”_

“Who, Lydia,” Deaton insisted, “This is important – _say his name,_ Lydia.”

“I don’t _know it,”_ Lydia said, angry at everything and nothing. She’d forgotten someone, him, someone she cared for, and – and –

“I need a pen and paper,” Lydia rushed out “When – back when the Darach was – I drew – and the Deadpool – I typed – because I could hear –”

Deaton quickly found and handed her a notepad and a pencil. At this, Lydia took a breath and closed her eyes.

“Riders on a storm,” She repeated. “It’s a song.”

“What else?” Deaton asked as he watched Lydia hold the pencil and hesitate.

“Lightning,” Lydia said, distantly. Her hand started moving about the page, letters forming words, over and over again.

“Horses.” She said. “Wind. Gunshots.”

“And?” Deaton encouraged.

“He said I’d forget him.” She said, strained. “And I did.” Lydia paused. She changed track because this wasn’t helping.

“There are things that don’t make sense.” She said. “Allison is Scott’s sister by law, I’m dating Scott, I guess, Malia – seems different, more like she was… _I don’t know,_ before? But before _what?_ I can’t _tell,_ but she apparently dated Theo which – no, that’s not _right,_ and –” Lydia took a deep breath.

“I’ve got the most horrible feeling about Allison.” She said, her voice catching on the girl’s name. “Awful. It’s… so awful. But I feel like if I see her, I’ll scream. And I don’t want to scream. She can’t _die,_ she can’t be _dead,_ she’s my _best friend.”_

“And how does this relate?” Deaton asked, watching to see if she’d resume writing.

“Because it’s like…” Lydia hesitated.

“It’s like…” Deaton encouraged.

“It’s like she’s not here,” Lydia said, quietly. “Like she’s replaced something important. Someone important. Like… like she’s only here to make us complacent. I avoided her at school today because I felt like I’d scream but –” She cut herself off

“But?” Deaton prompted.

“But…” Lydia hesitated. “But I feel like I wouldn’t scream _for_ her. Like I’d scream _at_ her.”

“Ah.” Deaton nodded slowly. “I see.”

There was a pause, during which Lydia fretted and didn’t write anything.

“How does this relate back to the missing person?” Deaton asked.

“She replaced him,” Lydia said, distantly. “But…”

Deaton waited, patient.

“Not entirely.” Lydia continued. “There’s – parts that don’t make sense. Like Theo being the source of the void flies, that – nobody was possessed by a nogitsune, exactly.”

Deaton nodded, not that she could see this what with her eyes closed.

“She looks like him,” Lydia said, abruptly. “That’s –” Lydia stopped writing, started drawing. “ _She looks like him._ I don’t – they weren’t related, I don’t think, It doesn’t feel like that, but…”

“It’s information, Lydia,” Deaton said.

“And that’s always useful,” Lydia continued for him, drawing still, eyes closed.

“Indeed,” Deaton said, inclining his head.

“I’m a banshee,” Lydia said. “It doesn’t exempt me from forgetting but…”

“It will help you remember,” Deaton said. “What does a Banshee do best, Lydia?”

“Scream,” Lydia said, distantly.

“Lydia,” Deaton said, seriously. “A banshee screams to _hear_. The voices… what do you think they are?”

“A banshee in mythology is fae,” Lydia said. “But I’m not like the mythology says.”

“There is always some truth in legend and myth,” Deaton said. “A world slightly separate from our own, and yet here, all the same… it is not unfeasible.”

“I scream to drown out the noise,” Lydia said. “To hear the voices clearer.”

“As I said, yes.” Deaton inclined his head, again.

“The fae,” She said, distantly. “The Wild Hunt… they’re fae, aren’t they?”

“In the stories,” Deaton said, “Perhaps.”

“In reality, definitely,” Lydia surmised. “Okay, so… different species in the same classification.”

Lydia paused. “This is _my_ jurisdiction.”

“The fae are in ways interconnected,” Deaton said, “Like the Banshees and the Hellhounds, the Wild Hunt have their connections; their allies and enemies, beings that can hurt them, and beings that make them stronger.”

“Are the wild hunt and… Parrish and I connected in some way?” She asked the vet.

“I don’t know.” He said, plainly. “After all, I’m just a druid.”

“The wild hunt is found in that mythos, though.” She said, “Celtic. So are Banshees.”

“Then there is your answer,” He said.

“So it _is_ my jurisdiction.” She said. “Life and death.”

“Not quite,” Deaton said.

“… Existence.” Lydia said. “Whether you do or not. Death is an end to that, and I can sense it.”

“Closer,” Deaton said. “Much closer.”

Lydia nodded.

“So… if I can sense this – change in… reality, I should be able to sense… what was changed. Who was taken.”

“Careful,” Deaton said. “There is danger in doing this. Knowing what the fae know… seeing the world for what it was and perhaps should be…”

“There is danger in everything we do,” Lydia snapped, opening her eyes. “I was _born_ for this. This sort of thing is _in my nature._ You _chose_ to immerse yourself in the supernatural – I had no choice. It would have happened eventually, even without being bitten.”

“Then perhaps,” Deaton said, “You should look for a place the wild hunt have been before.”

“And do what?” She asked.

“Try to sense what happened.” He said. “Try to find the missing… to figure out where they are.”

“A ghost town,” Lydia said. “They’re not just… abandoned places, are they?”

“Some are,” Deaton said. “But… you are correct, in a sense. Nobody ever escapes the wild hunt.”

Lydia frowned at him.

“It is clear now,” Deaton said, “That though the myth has always been that they take people, the truth of the wild hunt is all the more sinister. They _erase people._ From reality.”

“What do you think happens if they stay gone for too long?”

“Personally?” Deaton asked. Lydia nodded. “It’s just a theory,” Deaton warned, “But… if they’re gone ‘too long’, well… perhaps they forget themselves, too. In the end.”

Lydia looked down at the notebook.

_Mischief mischief mischief mischief mischief misc_

“Okay.” She said. “Mischief.”

And half a face, maybe a little less. Alright.

Clues. Something to work with.

“Thank you.” She said to Deaton. The man inclined his head, again, and Lydia turned and left.

Maybe they’d believe her. Maybe they won’t. But they’ll at least humour her, which is _enough._ Because this… this is _serious._ And Lydia can’t leave this be.

She had to try, at least, to figure this out. Because she’s a _banshee._ It’s… what she does.

Finding dead bodies. Finding non-existent people.

It’s not too different, she figured.

Lydia got back into her car, started the ignition. She startled when her phone went off, but she put it on speaker and started driving.

“Lydia, hey,” Allison said, and Lydia’s hand went straight to her throat, immediately started trying to massage away the itch she felt within.

“Allison,” Lydia said, heavily. “Whatever it is will have to wait.” Lydia paused. “Could you call the others to meet at Scott’s house?”

“Of course,” Allison said, concerned. “I’ll do it straight away.”

And with that, the call cut off.

But Lydia still wanted to scream – and that, she figured, wasn’t going to go away any time soon.

* * *

 


End file.
